Chapter 59
Atlas
Ifixate on my stained shirt, mottled with blood that’s soured a dark brown.
My hands and forearms are caked with it, crusting and breaking off into tiny motes that flake the linoleum flooring.
Healers come and go. I’m sure they asked me how I was doing at some point, but everything’s numb and cold, a world void of their warmth and light.
Ezra’s being tended to the same as Conin.
While Ezra has a higher chance of a full recovery, Conin’s situation remains bleak.
Healers surround him at regular intervals.
They have some of the best tending to him.
Regardless, Conin is on constant oxygen with blood transfusions pumping back the excess blood he lost. The bullet grazed so deep that Mafu had a difficult time pulling out the various fragments.
When I make another round, Ambrosia impedes me from pacing any further. Her cold fingers grip my biceps tightly, keeping me at arm’s length. She searches my line of sight and tries to gather my attention.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she whispers.
I don’t protest.
Ambrosia slips her fingers around mine, tugging me gently to a restroom at the far end of the hall.
We sidle in, the door is shut gently behind me, and I start to feel the raw stirring of coarse hands scrubbing away the crusted-on blood.
By the end, I’m freed of the crimson stains at the cost of my stinging, abraded arms. The sink drains the brackish water and leaves residual streaks of red.
I look in the restroom’s mirror, glasses askew, lips mangled from where I’ve been chewing them.
“Stay here. I’m going to find you a change of clothes,” Ambrosia says.
The reflection gazes drearily back at me, suspended in time.
I could’ve prevented him from hurting himself. I should’ve never fallen asleep.
Ambrosia returns before any stupid decisions are made. She knocks softly.
“Eureka101, it’s me.”
She gives me privacy to change. I shuck out of my pants and underwear, strip my torso of the blemished T-shirt, and let it fall to the ground with the rest of the tainted clothing.
I study the indents on my ribs, the lean muscle on my chest, the bruised patch on my shoulder from cradling Ezra in my arms after stumbling over the sleek tile.
The clothes fit loosely over my frame. I crack open the door to let her know I’m finished.
Ambrosia inserts herself, then sits me down on the toilet seat.
She leans against the wall, arms folded, staring down at me like I’m some kid in need of a scolding—or, I don’t know.
(She kind of always has a scrutinizing expression on—a no-bullshit attitude.)
“You might’ve just saved his life,” she tells me. The checkered tiles below my feet zoom into focus.
“I could’ve stopped him,” I mumble.
“Could you? You told me what happened, and all it sounds like to me is an unfortunate series of events. At the end of the day, Ezra made his decision. You made yours by calling for help.”
Ambrosia may be stern and standoffish, but she always knows what to say, without fail.
“I’ve missed you,” I say.
She kneels and wraps me in her warm embrace. She smells oddly of mint, permeating from her thick locs. I breathe her in, nestling my nose into her skin.
“I missed you, too.”
There’s a subtle set of knocks. Ambrosia mimes an apology and goes to answer the intruder. The silence builds and as it looms, tension mounts. She cracks the door open to a sliver, then shuts it momentarily to look at me.
“It’s Mafu,” she says.
“No.”
She frowns. “Come on, Atlas. You two should talk.”
There’s nothing I want to talk about, not when everything’s in shambles, but it was bound to happen sooner rather than later, so I might as well get the confrontation over with (much to my chagrin). I gesture for her to let him in.
“I’ll be right outside,” she says.
Then it’s just me and Mafu in this tiny restroom, alone.
The silence is brutally uncomfortable. My eyes don’t leave his feet, instead staying suspended, neither panning down nor moving up to look at him in the eyes.
He reclines against the porcelain sink. His gaze burns into my head, leaving singed skin, hair, and my waning, dying composure.
“I’m so sorry about Conin and Ezra. I hope they recover,” he murmurs.
So, he knows.
My heart on a goddamn silver platter.
Another stretch of empty words left unsaid.
“Are you really going to stay mad at me forever?”
I contemplate what Mafu said with my lips sealed. He squirms, his foot tapping relentlessly on the tile.
“Fine, I’ll go,” he says.
“Wait,” I blurt out.
I—
“—I’m not mad at you.”
He doesn’t push any further—he waits idly by. I still can’t look him in the eye, which usually isn’t a problem for me, but now it’s unfathomable, shirking myself of this protection. I have no more vulnerability to give.
“Things were changing too quickly. I wanted familiarity before it was stripped from me. I wanted things as they were and not the responsibilities I knew I was going to have when abu passed away. You and the others made it bearable. When you left, it felt . . . I guess it felt sort of like a betrayal,” I say, the words tumbling out one after the other.
“I wanted to stay,” he says, “but I felt the need to follow them after all the sacrifices my parents made. And, well . . . the operation was yours and abuelito’s. It felt wrong intruding.”
He and I are at an impasse, momentarily, while we collect our thoughts. The tension has faded and there’s only familiarity in the space between us, a lifetime bursting with our shared experiences.
“I’m sorry I hurt you.”
I sigh.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry I was an ass about it.”
Mafu chuckles.
“All is forgiven, dude.”
“But why the trailer homes? Why not stay with your family if that’s why you left?”
Mafu groans, repositioning himself.
“You had to ruin the moment, didn’t you?”
“I’m infamous for that . . .”
His smirk is playful, and he relaxes his eyebrows.
“Well . . . we disagreed one night—about what, I can’t remember. I accused them of being cowards, screaming at them that we should’ve never left home. We haven’t exactly been on the best of terms since,” he tells me.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“We’ll get there eventually.”
He helps me to my feet, and he and I exit the restroom together (which totally looks like we were caught in the act).
Ambrosia greets us with a solemn nod, letting us know there aren’t any updates on Ezra’s and Conin’s conditions.
My heart won’t slow, no matter how hard I will it to.
My thumbs excessively circle in tireless intervals.
Our estranged trio sits in the lobby, waiting for scraps of good news to reach our ears.
“Atlas, is that you?” sounds a voice from above where I’m hunched over. The voice is, at first, unrecognizable, until I peer up to match the sound with a face. Several years have passed, but I’d know her anywhere.
“Delilah,” I say, standing to greet her. “How are you?”
“I’m good . . . safe, because of you and your grandpa. I’m sorry about his passing. Augurys was one of a kind,” she says.
“That he was. Thank you, though. I’m happy to see you doing so well.”
As much as I’m delighted to see an Angelic abu and I successfully housed to safety, these interactions grow too cumbersome.
My energy depletes and the strength in my legs gives way.
Mafu leverages me to the bench, where I attempt to hide my embarrassment.
Delilah grins fondly at me. There isn’t a hint of judgment on her face.
“Your friends are going to make it out of this, okay? I’ll do everything in my power to ensure they do,” she says confidently.
Abu was adamant about getting her to Proctus in one piece, whatever it took, however high the risk, because of her healing abilities.
Being around Delilah and the Angelics, symbols of his legacy, makes these shoes feel impossible to fill.
I’m hanging on by a loose thread—emotions over the precipice of no control.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Delilah places a tentative hand on my shoulder before disappearing around the bend. Ambrosia, Mafu, and I sit like we’re in solitary confinement, waiting until the ceiling inevitably falls on us, silencing my voice along with those I’m afraid to lose.
You offer your heart on a silver platter, pa had told me.
I didn’t realize it’d been plucked from my chest.